


the spider and the priest

by The_Fluffy_Prince



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bottom Eren Yeager, Horror, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Top Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), more like cannibalism tbh, vampire ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fluffy_Prince/pseuds/The_Fluffy_Prince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the grime of the underbelly of France was where Rivaille Ackerman was born. He was young when he learned to fight and steal to survive all thanks to the imprudent spending of the King and Queen, their rule was otherwise known as The Reign of Terror. He was born at a time where poverty and death was a normal thing to see. He always seemed to be at places in the wrong time.<br/>Fast forward after the French Revolution, he is now a war experienced soldier nicknamed Humanity's Strongest. He is captured by a doctor with a last name called Jaeger who experiments on him and others. What he doesn't expect is for it to backfire. Dr.Jaeger manages to escape but Rivaille swears revenge on his family.<br/>The year is 2016 and Eren Jaeger is the son of a priest in a small town in Germany. There is a sudden outbreak of grizzly, inexplicable deaths that drive people frantically to his father's church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the spider and the priest

**Author's Note:**

> some parts are inspired by the movie Perfume

The world was much different than it had been in Rivaille Ackerman’s youth. Now, the air was sticky with paranoia. The fear buzzing like mosquitoes in your ear. Someone was always watching. He supposed they’d grown smarter; more aware.

 

He was born on the border of Germany and France. Strasbourg, ‘the town at crossroads’. The picturesque city had looming, gothic buildings straight out of fairytales. The cobble streets led through arches and bridges, through dark alleys and winding paths and into the mysterious town.

 

He was born in 1773, into the very slums of France. The house that shouldn’t even be called a house was made out of cheap wood sticks held together by mud while the roof was thatched with flimsy straw. In the winter it let in freezing drafts of frigid air, while it leaked profusely when it rained. There was only one room and a tiny cellar.

 

The scum he dared to call parents hated him and the food he would ‘waste’ as so they called it. His birth, after all, was a mistake. Well, it wasn’t his fault his father couldn’t keep it in his pants.

 

To keep Rivaille out of the way, they’d kept him in the cellar most of his childhood, stunting his growth. He’d often wondered why they didn’t just let him die. They didn’t want to go Hell he supposed.

 

His mother worked in the market square, selling the fish his father caught. In the muck of raw fish and blood was where he was born. His mother birthed him right there while she worked, she herself tore the umbilical cord. Her hands were bloody but she only continued to cut and sell the fish as if nothing had happened. His senses as a baby had been heightened from the very moment he left the warm womb and dropped onto the cold and smelly earth. He could smell everything in that market stall. The rotting fish, the sweaty bodies pressed up against each other, the apple tree that had yet to bear fruit, the salt of the ocean. He could also hear everything at once, it had frightened him as he was so used to the quiet, dark warmth inside of his mother. The foggy light was so bright against his sensitive eyes as well. With blood and dirt smeared over his tiny body and the noise and scent of the world ringing, he cried.

 

In the slums, there was no hygiene. They very rarely bathed, if not at all. Everyone had an unbalanced diet as they survived on mostly cereals and rotten fruits. They were very often sick. Rivalle’s parents in particular spent their money on bad wine and bread. They often had cabbage.

 

He had learned not to cry and scream since he was very young. His parents would hit him or not give him food for days if he did. And they often gave him no food without reason either way, preferring to eat themselves.

 

When he was the age where he could walk, his parents made him go out and beg for money or food, screaming at him to be useful.

 

“I’m tired of this little rat eatin’ our food without workin’. All ya do is shit and eat. You ain’t no king, brat.” His mother spat out, preparing herself as she went out to whore herself. Her husband didn’t give two shits, only telling her to return with money and no babies.

 

So at age 9, Rivaille would stand in alleys begging for food and money, hopeful people would be kinder to him as he was a child. There was no such mercy. He wasn’t the only kid who begged, people saw this kind of thing daily. Not to mention every peasant was dealing with the onslaught of poverty and a shortage of food thanks to the king and queen’s imprudent spending. No one was free from this suffering.

 

Rivaille remembered the cold on his bare feet as he begged from day to night, receiving nothing. He remember the sharp pains in his stomach from hunger. He remembered the pain his body felt when his parents would hit him when he’d return with nothing. He remembered sitting in his cellar in a mess of his own tears, angry and hungry. He remembered thinking to himself, _he’d get stronger, he’d make them pay_. And he did just that. He fought others for scraps of food, perfecting his fighting. He’d steal. At first his skills were laughable. His movements were weak and nervous and he’d been been caught and thrown to the ground plenty of times before he corrected his mistakes. He’d learned the alleys like the back of his hand. His skills at hiding and blending in with the shadows were impeccable. His fighting however decent, needed work.

 

Despite that his fighting needed work, for the very first time in his short, miserable life he’d managed to block his father’s drunk punches before he’d escaped to his cellar. He remembered the pounding of his heart and the shaking of his hands. The feeling of being _alive_.

 

He was 12 when he had his first friends. A small girl with red hair named Isabel and a tall blond named Farlan. Isabel was like fire itself, she was stubborn and relentless but he found warmth in her. Farlan was an ocean, calm and soothing but fierce.

 

Farlan had managed to get a job at the coal mine despite the dangers it came with it. And Isabel worked in an a bakery run by an old man named Dot Pixis who was kind if not a bit eccentric. But between Rivaille’s stealing and the two working it was still not enough. Soon the coal mine shut down as there was no more coal to mine leaving many people without a job. And the pay Isabel had been receiving was miniscule. Sometimes Pixis had nothing to sell as the nobles bought all the grains, leaving none for the peasants.

 

He was 13 when he had enough. He had known the life of thugs, violence and fighting now. He came back home one night, already split the days fortune between his friends and himself. He entered the dirty shack to find his father drunk off his ass in mess of his own throw up. Because the floor was made of hay, the vomit could never be cleaned and his parents were far too lazy to change the molded hay anyhow. Very often his father was too lazy to even go outside to shit. So it and the stench stayed.

 

The fishing business was not so great. Since the bays had become increasingly polluted it was hard to actually get any fish. Sometimes his father had to go deeper out into the ocean but it was dangerous with his little fishing boat and limited supplies. Not that Rivaille cared, he hoped one day one of his father’s mates came by to tell them he went overboard and drowned. But it didn’t matter since he wasn’t going to bother him anymore after today.

 

He had his trusty knife tucked in his belt but he wasn’t going to dirty it with his pig for a father’s blood. No, he would settle like the savage his father was. So he took a beer bottle and smashed it against the wall so all he had was the neck of the bottle with jagged edges. He circled the dead weight of a man with hate filled eyes. He kicked him none too gently in the stomach. His father awoke angry.

 

“The fuck is with you?” He slurred out, trying to get up. But Rivaille merely kicked him in the neck. The man wheezed and choked on air. When he could speak again he spat out, “I’ll kill you for that, you waste of space.”

 

Rivaille gazed at him with his sharp eyes. For the first time in years, he spoke to him. “I could say the same to you.” He bit out as he stomped on the man’s face. His father suddenly grabbed his leg, twisting him the ground. Rivaille fell onto his back with a grunt, dropping the bottle. He saw his father raise a meaty hand, ready to punch his face but Levi dodged. The man was drunk. Rivaille could read his attacks, he just had a hard time breaking free of the heavy man’s grasp. The man managed a punch on Rivaille’s stomach, slowing him down. Rivaille reached out for the bottle, touching it with his fingertips before a hand grabbed that wrist. He was so close.

 

“Y’know with your mother whoring herself off her pussy has gotten awfully stretchy. It’s no more fun in there.. It’s time you start picking up her slack…” the man licked his lips lewdly, reaching to Rivaille’s pants.

 

“Disgusting.” Rivaille spat on the man’s face and used his free hand to land a hard punch at the man’s cheek, drawing blood. With the man distracted, he rolled out from underneath him and grabbed the bottle. He saw the man wiping off his spit before he positioned the bottle in his hand and slammed it down into his chest. He gazed at his father’s eyes in disgust as he saw the life dwindle in his eyes. He cocked his head to the side as the hay was stained red by the growing puddle of blood. No more words would ever leave his mouth. The man was dead. He circled the dead body in almost curiosity. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies around, be it from disease, starvation or fights. But he’s never killed anyone. Not until now.

 

Something clicked in him that day.

 

He smiled.

 

It was a crooked smile.

 

It felt good.

 

That night, he waited until the woman who birthed him came home. She came back smelling of sweat and beer. Her dress was barely on right.

 

“Oi, shitty old man. I only got 3 pounds t’night.” Silence. “Get off ya ass-” he voice was cut short when she saw her husband in cold blood. She screamed and rushed to his side.

 

“Done whoring, _mother_?” A tight voice ripped the cold silence. The woman whipped her head towards the sound to see her son leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

 

There was no light in their pathetic excuse for a house, too poor to afford oil lamps or candles. The three figures were shrouded in darkness, still and silent.

 

“You…. you did this!” The woman’s vicious voice accused, hands gripping the cold, dead body.

 

“He had it coming.” Was all Rivaille said.

 

Despite the pitch darkness, he could still make out the hatred in his mother’s eyes.

 

“I should have killed you when I had the chance. Ripped you out and left you to die in that pile of rotting fish. But God damn those people who saw you, forced me to raise you since that’s what God would have wanted…” there was laboured silence. He saw tears of anger stream down her face in the faint moonlight.

“Well,” Rivaille started as he walked slowly to her, “Thank God for your… altruism.” His voice was cold and dry. He stood about a foot away from her, the dead look in his eyes void of emotion was chilling for a boy of only 13 years.

 

“Keeping you alive has wasted me a fortune, you ruined my life, you piece of shit!” Rivaille watched the person he perceived as unbreakable when he was younger snivel like a baby. He watched her babble hateful nonsense to him but he saw it covering up something he’d never see in her. Fear.

 

She quieted when she saw the jagged bottle in his hand. Her eyes widened. But she was too late.

 

The next morning, the cold was numbing. The earth was blanketed in a flurry of white. People were crowded around the execution platform, gaping in awe. In the center was Rivaille’s mother, swaying on the hanging pole by her intestines wrapped around her neck. Her stomach was torn open, fish replacing her organs. On the floor under her was Rivaille’s father, splayed on his back. All four of his limbs were discarded around the square in an uncaring way. And in his mouth was his own cut off penis.

 

Their skin was frosty and blue. The blood that had leaked and dripped out from the woman’s body had frozen into red icicles that were sharp as knives. They threatened to break off and fall into her dead husband underneath her swaying body.

 

The audience of people could only watch in horror as crows picked at the rotting fish inside the woman’s carcass.

 

Rivaille was 15 when his friends were killed. It had been from a group of thugs that wanted revenge. But Rivaille had made the mistake of taking their warning lightly. He made the mistake of thinking he was invincible. That no one could touch him.

 

Isabel, Farlan and Rivaille had rented a small tenement after Rivaille’s parents were killed. The three never talked about it, but they all knew deep down it had freed Rivaille. This act of freedom was needed. The police had investigated uselessly. Since it was merely the slums, no real effort was put into this case. Besides the world had much more issues to deal with than dirty peasants. The case was dropped and the bodies were disposed of. And that was that. However, no one could deny the murder was intriguing. There were many cruel forms of torture that was so, but a murder like this was one of the first the people of Strasbourg would see.

 

It happened when Rivaille least expected it. Isabel was working late at Pixis’ bakery while Farlan had been out looking for a job. Usually, Rivaille would go out and steal food for them but they’d said there was enough bruised fruit and hard bread for them to go on. They’d told him to take a break and stay home, sleep, practice his reading and writing. Isabel had told him with a blinding smile he’d have a better chance getting out of the slums if he knew how to read and write. It took a lot of convincing but he stayed. He told them to hurry home so he could teach them both how to read and write so they’d all get to leave.

 

That day his dream was an old memory of him and Farlan. It was when they first met. _Farlan was sitting on the side of the road smudged in black coal dust. Rivaille saw him from far away and usually this kind of thing was annoying to deal with. A crying kid. But there was something in the dirty blond’s crying that was painful, nostalgic. It reminded him of himself. Rivaille had walked over to him hesitantly with bare feet. “Hey… are you ..okay?” He had no idea what to say. This was the first time he spoke to another kid his age._

_The blond had looked up at him, dirty cheeks streaked with tears. The kid had narrowed his eyes and said, “What do you care? Just leave me al-” he stopped when he felt something drop into his lap. When he looked down it was a bruised apple. When he turned to the boy to ask him why he gave him it, the boy had already turned to leave.”W-wait! Come back.” Rivaille had stopped and came back. “Thank you. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”_

_“Why are you crying?” Rivaille said instead of saying ‘you’re welcome’._

_Farlan had sighed and wiped his face with his dirty fingers which just dirtied his face more. He bit into the apple before answering. “My father died.”_

_“Oh.” the voices of people selling their wares filled the silence. “Sorry. How?”_

_“Do you know that old mine near here?” Rivaille nodded. “He and a few other men got crushed under some rocks that fell.”_

_“I wish my father was the one that died.” Rivaille had said._

_Farlan had looked at him and smiled. “Thanks. But why?”_

_“Because he’s a dick.”_

_Farlan got the message and didn’t pry. Rivaille appreciated that. “Hey wanna go somewhere fun?” Rivaille checked the sky._

_Well. His parents could fuck themselves._

 

When he woke up, it was dusk. Since it was winter, the sun set much earlier. He saw the yellow hues against the grey sky. It was quiet. He shot up out of bed. There was something wrong. They always got back at dusk yet there was no sign of them inside their home. Rivaille had grabbed his coat and darted out the door before he could wait any longer.

 

By the time he made it to the town square it was nighttime and the vendor tables were all packed up and put away. There was not a soul in sight. He ran up to Pixis’ bakery seeing the **CLOSED** sign on the door. His breath fogged on the window as he peered in the dark store. He knew the old man would be out drinking in a tavern but he checked the doorknob just in case. It was locked. He knocked a few more times but soon left in rush when no one answered. He staggered through the snow to find his friends but after awhile he figured they’d returned in the time he’d been looking for them. As he turned to leave that’s when he heard it. A loud, girlish scream. Rivaille knew that voice anywhere.

 

He ran towards the voice and it led him to an alleyway. He hid behind a trashcan, knowing smartly not to uncover his presence without analyzing the situation. A blonde figure was slumped on the ground. His eyes widened when he realized who it was. _Farlan!_ He rushed over to his side and checked his pulse, but he was cold and his eyes were unseeing. He was already gone. He never got to say goodbye.

 

He turned around in rage and found Isabel kicking a man in the balls, tears running down his face. Her eyes glowered at Rivaille.

 

“They did this to Farlan, big bro! Kill them!” She screamed in fury. He noticed her head was missing hair like someone cut it carelessly. Her clothes were ripped and blood trickled out of a wound from her leg.

 

He felt a hatred deep inside of himself, greater than the hatred towards his parents.

 

There were three of the thugs. One was on the ground clutching his balls in pain, the other two were lunging towards Rivaille. One man with dirty blond hair sprung at him with a punch but Rivaille ducked and grabbed the wrist. He twisted the wrist to the side and with his elbow, banged it hard into the man’s arm; smashing the bone. The man cried out in pain as he clutched his arm that was turned in an awkward angle.

 

The second man used his height and heavy weight to his advantage by grabbing Rivaille’s short frame by his neck. For a second, the man had the upperhand, raising Rivaille up off the ground. But Rivaille only took a deep breath and swung his foot backwards hard at the man’s stomach. Rivaille was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He wheezed to get his breath back and was back on his feet. He reached down at the writhing man’s head and grabbed his hair, he knocked the head on the hard cement ground and the man was out instantly.

 

Just as he was about to turn and see how Isabel was doing he heard a wet cough and liquid hitting the concrete. He whipped his head behind him and gasped in shock. Isabel was in front of him, protecting him from an oncoming knife attack, but in the process… got stabbed from behind. Blood dripped from her mouth and tears from her green eyes. The front of her blouse was stained red.

 

“No!” Rivaille cried out. “No!” He watched with wide eyes as Isabel slumped to the ground.

 

He bounced to his feet and before the man could do so much as blink, Rivaille took the knife he used to stab Isabel and sliced his neck open. Blood spurted on his face and shirt, but Rivaille didn’t care. He ran over to Isabel’s figure and gathered her up carefully in his arms. He covered the wound on her back to try and stop the bleeding but he knew he was too late, it had already cut open an artery. He knew this yet he hoped somewhere it would be enough to save her. He knew it was foolish, he’d watched countless hopeful people pray over a sick person to live. And then he watched the sick person die just like the rest. He wanted to believe in God or magic in that moment, begged someone to _please_ don’t leave him alone.

 

“Big….bro…” Isabel gasped out.

 

“Shh. It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna get out of here.” His voice was shaky. Isabel gazed in awe at him, never having seen him like this before. In this moment she realized how much he cared for her, and that made her happier than she’d ever been in her life.

 

Isabel smiled despite the pain. Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto the cold ground. She knew she’d never see the world beyond the slums.

 

“Tell me how it looks like, big bro… the world… outside.” Rivaille watched her eyes grow glassy and her breathing still.

 

He laid her down next to Farlan. He sat in the middle of them. He realized it was snowing again.

 

It was cold.

 

The next day, there was reports of three dead and mutilated bodies. The amounts of blood in that alleyway was frightening.

  


He was 16 when the revolution unfurled. He remembers the loudness, the fire, the fear, the freedom.

 

He recalled the dirty peasants with hollowed cheeks and bony bodies as they stormed the Bastille. He heard the talk of revolutionists in the squares on the streets of the town. In the commotion that was war, was what he was able to escape. There were no rules, there were no laws.

 

He remembered thinking, _huh I guess I didn't need to read or write after all_ . As he passed the dead knights guarding the border of the underground. _All we needed was a war, who knew_.

 

When you reach the outside world, it was a city as it was as shitty as the Underground. There were no walls, it was liberating. He felt as though he could breathe. It was cleaner if not by a little bit.

 

 _The sky is blue,_ he would think, _so blue. It hurts my eyes, the sun._

 

He remembered that first day he escaped the Underground. There was a clothing shop that had broken windows. Everyone was much too preoccupied with killing the aristocrats that they paid no attention to him.

 

He picked the finest clothes in the shop. A white button-up shirt with porcelain buttons and a blue satin suit over it. He also had white tights with white pants over them. He picked out the shiniest pair of black boots with buckles. Over everything he put on a heavy, black fur cloak. It felt so nice to be in clean clothes.

 

Before he left however, he saw something that caught his eye. It was a crisp white cravat that was on display at the front. His boots crunched on the broken glass as he made his way to the front. He picked the delicate silk fabric and stared at it in apathy. He wrapped it around his neck, tucking the delicate cloth against his collar. He heard a distant crash of a building as the peasants had their way with any aristocrat. But he merely adjusted his cuff links.

 

He wandered the shop until he found what he was looking for. A safe. It was locked but he easily picked at it and in seconds had the box open to find the plethora of coins. He dumped them all in a satchel which he hid under his cloak.

 

The cloak shrouded his clothes and scuffed against the floor as he walked out the door. He raised the hood over his head. He went into abandoned stores and repeated the process of filling his satchel with coins. He stopped when it reached the top. He stared at the overflowing bag of gold. What his parents would give to have this. He scoffed.

 

He easily weaved through the back alleys. He didn’t want to get mistaken by the peasants for a noble afterall. His pace was quick and even. He didn’t’ know this upper part of Strasbourg so he noted every nook and cranny in his head.

 

He saw screaming women and children flee from another direction. He went in the direction they came from. He saw people in expensive hats and coats dead on the cobbled ground.  He rolled his eyes. Fire exploded a nearby apartment window. The people of Strasbourg were very angry. The city will tear itself apart until they were given what they wanted, he knew that much.

 

Rivaille found an abandoned market and filled his pockets with fruit, bread and cheese. He stopped at a well to drink water and wash his face. He supposed war was the best time for him to steal, as it was much less stealing and more effortlessly taking. He wasn’t complaining about the war as it worked in his advantage. He was able to escape the Underground and vulture food and coin without even having to hide himself. But he was in no way supporting the King and his Austrian wife. Thanks to their extravagant spending, he starved most of his miserable life.

 

But his misery was slowly ending. Yes it was now where he could truly begin his life. Everyone would slowly get their retribution.

 

He walked until he reached the center of the inflamed city. He caught a carriage driver’s attention.

 

“Quickly boy, what do you want? Can’t you see we’re being attacked!”

 

Rivaille hopped into the carriage.

 

“Where to, lad?”

 

“Take me to Versailles.”

 

“That’s nearly 3 days due east!” The driver exclaimed as he whipped his horse to start moving.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got money.” Rivaille replied as he examined the velvet interior.

 

“Well…. Whatever it takes to get out of this hell forsaken city.” _You mean, anything for money._ And they were off. “Those dirty peasants are fucking crazy! Good thing we got out of there in time.” The man said from the front of the carriage, back facing him.

 

Rivaille watched with something akin to joy as the drove off from the burning buildings that toppled over one another. He watched the bloodshed as peasants killed the nobles and knights try to stop them. He watched as the fire became only a speck of orange. He watched as they drove away from the place where he was born among the pile of rotten fish.

 

“Yes.” Rivaille responded, realizing the man wasn’t referring him as a peasant. He turned his head from the window and let the curtain fall over it, darkening the inside. He was no peasant anymore. He didn’t feel bad about leaving his birth place.

 

After that, the two males shared no more words together. The only noise the horse’s clops striking the pavement and the roll and creak of the carriage.

 

The first day consisted of sleeping in the lacy cushioned interior that smelled of roses and was softer than anything he’d ever owned. When he awoke he ate an apple. After that, the man stopped the carriage at a lake so his horse could drink and eat. Rivaille stepped out to piss and stretch his cramped joints. As he stretched, he noticed the blond man was looking at him. For a second Rivaille thought he’d been found out.

 

“The name’s Gunther Schultz and this is my horse, Kozo. And yourself, lad?” The man with the beard asked.

 

Rivaille stared blankly at him. Rivaille was dead and gone.

 

“Levi.”

 

Levi was someone who he’d reinvent. Someone who was the same yet better.

 

“Nice to meet ya!” The blond said, smiling.

 

“Likewise.”

 

Levi was in no mood for making friends, but he supposed he would need to meet people to get the things he wanted.

 

“Can I ask a question?” Gunther said as he brushed Kozo’s mane.

 

Levi tried his best not to sigh. “What.”

 

“Why’re you in such a hurry to get to Versailles?”

 

Levi thought for a moment, putting on a face as if he were contemplating telling him when in fact he was thinking up an excuse.

 

“I need to see the king.” He said. Which in a way, was the truth.

 

“Why?” Gunther asked, almost suspiciously.

 

“I have a message for him.”

 

“Where is it?” Levi was starting to get annoyed with his constant questioning.

 

“In my bag.” He quipped out. With that, he wandered off to the lake, filling up his pouch with water. After that, he then dunked his head in the water and scrubbed his hair. He whipped his hair and droplets fell to the ground. He scrunched his nose when he saw the dirt in the water. He squeezed strands of his hair to get all the water out. His jet black hair was up to his chin. He would have to cut it soon.

Later, all tucked away in the warm carriage, he watched them drive by the countryside. Plains of green stretched on for miles. It was like nothing he’d seen in the polluted slums.

 

For dinner he ate bread and a chunk of cheese. When he was done, he wrapped the remaining cheese in a thin cloth, not wanting bugs to get at it.

 

For the night, they stopped behind trees and bushes, obscuring them from the main road’s view.

 

By the next day, Levi was starting to get tired of the expanse of land that never seemed to end. He’d exceeded the number of ways to entertain himself. _I should’ve snagged a book,_ he’d often think to himself.

 

Finally though, he started to see farms and houses meaning civilization was nearby.

 

“Almost there.” Gunther said, as if reading his thoughts.

 

“How long ‘til we reach the city?” Levi asked.

 

“2 or 3 hours.”

 

Levi leaned back and sighed. He stared at working peasants and thought, _if they’re still slaving away that means they don’t know about the uprising_. Levi smirked. He didn’t have much time but he knew he had enough.

 

“Thanks for the ride.” Levi mumbled as he hopped off the coach. He handed the man the money and turned to leave.

 

“Oi Levi!” Gunther called out. Levi turned his head. “Be careful..” And with that he and the carriage was gone.

 

Levi stayed still even after the blond man disappeared. He couldn’t understand why the man’s words were eerie.

 

It wasn’t hard spotting the Palaces of Versailles the only problem being getting into it. But Levi wasn’t worried, he had a plan.

 

First, he entered a shop and stole parchment paper, a jar of ink, and a quill. The man at the front desk was being problematic so Levi knocked him out first. Thankfully, there were no witnesses. He then ventured to a small park with stone tables and began to write a letter. He made the letters bold and fancy.

 

 _“Tu es l’amour dans ma vie, le soleil de mes nuits..”_ He heard a young, lovestruck poet say. There was a crowd of cooing girls around him.

 

_“Tu es le sucre dans mon dessert!”_

 

Levi rolled his eyes. He was ridiculous.

 

He averted his gaze to the parchment at his fingertips. He closed his eyes as a cool breeze blew in his hair.

This would be no easy feat. He’d be entering the Palace of Versailles. This wasn’t the back ends of his shitty upbringing. This was the King’s palace. He needed to have a plan. The place would be littered with guards.

 

Levi sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He stared at the blank parchment with contempt.

 

He began to write out what he wanted.

 

 **_To His Majesty, King Louis XIV_ ** **,...**

 

Levi looked at his completed letter in satisfaction. He tucked it into an envelope and sealed it with wax.

 

He stood up and tucked the letter safely away in his pack. He turned his head to the giant palace in the distance. He saw it peeking out above the hills and trees.

 

There was still the matter of the Palace. He didn’t know how to navigate around it and he needed to be sure. He wasn’t in the mood to make mistakes. So he wouldn’t.

 

He would need a map of the interior. He needed to know exactly where he was going. He began walking the cobbled road uptown. He breathed in the pollinated air and walked a slow pace until he reached the shops. He saw the rich in their flamboyant glory walk haughtily. Their white powdered wigs wriggling with lice. Their red lips stretched around yellowed teeth. Just because they were rich didn’t mean they were clean. Far from it. Yes, they were all infused with filth, every one of them.

 

He peered into the map shop and clicked his tongue when he saw it was filled with customers. He couldn’t steal a map in such a cramped space and not get caught. He sighed and leaned against the window. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder. He’d wait until nighttime.

 

He decided to explore the new town in the meantime. He entered a perfume shop to see the room stacked with delicate glass bottles each filled with a light color. Levi watched the young women with big, heavy dresses giggle and sigh as they smelled the perfumes. Levi’s nose wrinkled as he could smell the fruity scent barely conceal their years of caked sweat and grime.

 

“I cannot wait for the party the Queen has invited us to!” One said. This made Levi perk up.

 

“Are you still going, even after what she is?” Another said.

 

The first one scoffed. “And what exactly is she?” Levi neared them, listening to their conversation while pretending to browse the small bottles.

 

“She is a whore, of course. Have you not read the newspapers lately? Those children aren’t the king’s.”

 

“Do you need help with anything?” A male voice said, directly in front of Levi. It was a man in colourful orange and red dresses and tights. Levi glared at him until he got the message and left.

 

“..and what proof do you have of that?”

 

“Oh please, Genevieve. We all know that the King is incompetent.”

 

“Was. Do not speak of them like that, or they’ll have your head.”

 

Levi nearly groaned at having to hear the girls gossip. But he bit his tongue and walked towards them. He threw on a dashing smile and gentle voice.

 

“Hello ladies. I apologize, I overheard your conversation. The royal family has invited you to their palace, you say?” He made sure his clothing underneath was showing so he’d at least look rich.

 

Genevieve giggled. “Aren’t you a handsome boy!” She hid her face with a fan. “And yes, it is a masquerade.” He felt her eyes rake over his figure. His smile felt tight on his lips.

 

The other woman seemed to feel ignored by the two and made her annoying presence known. Levi noticed her adjust her bodice so her breasts popped out. He suppressed the urge to sigh. Women.

 

He never had this issue in the slums. He knew women were fond of romance as it was the main thing he saw in poetry and plays. Love and women never grasped his attention as he was more focused on the necessity to survive. The closest women he knew was his mother and Isabel. But to Levi his mother was nothing more than dog shit. And Isabel was like a sister. But it didn’t matter because they were both dead and that was that.

 

Love was a nuisance in his mind.

 

“Mahieu.” The other woman said as she put out her hand. Levi got the message and with reluctance grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles.

 

“Enchanté.” Levi said to her. Her laugh was grating.

 

“Did you know my name means gift from God?” Mahieu said smugly.

 

Levi stared at her blankly, an insult at the tip of his tongue. But he needed information. “So, when is the masquerade then?”

 

“Tomorrow night.” Genevieve was quick to answer, pushing her friend out of the way.

 

“Well then, ladies, I must leave now. Goodbye.” He gave a ‘warm’ smile and turned to leave. He turned his back on them and scowled. He nearly felt sick.

 

Well now he had information, now he just needed to get an invitation.

 

Levi exited the perfume shop with a huff. He felt his cheeks aching with the unused smiles he put on. He massaged his cheeks and looked at his reflection in the glass. His thin lips were a straight line. His half-lid eyes were narrowed and apathetic. He tilted his chin upwards.

 

Walking away from the perfume shop, he blended in with the crowds of people. He heard music coming from a block away. As he neared the pleasant sound of a flute and fiddle, he watched in almost awe as they played in perfect harmony. He saw little girls with bare feet dancing to the music. Levi let his eyes close. He often wondered what his life would be like if he was born into a different family. If he had the chance to understand love. The music ended in an almost sad tune. Levi was smarter than to succumb to it though. He flicked gold coins into the man’s hat and continued on his way.

 

“Thank you, sir!”

 

Levi turned his head and saw one of the little girls with dirty, matted hair and bare feet standing behind him. He pursed his lips. He saw himself in her. He waved at her and continued on his way.

 

After a couple of hours uselessly meandering he’d just about lost all hope. How was he supposed to find an invitation for tomorrow? He slid down a tree and sat down with a sigh. He rummaged through his pack and pulled out the letter he wrote. Would this be enough to get inside? His gaze wandered to the palace in the distance. He could see the miles of green grass that made up the courtyard. He let his head hit the tree behind him.

 

There was a noise in the distance. Like the wooden wheels scraping on the road and clops of horse hooves.

 

Levi perked up and hid behind the tree. Sure enough a carriage came into view on the road. Levi noticed the intricate designs on the carriage. The driver was well dressed and the horses were clean and well maintained. An aristocrat was in that carriage. Levi stuffed the letter back into his pack and pulled out his knife. He glanced down at it before he shrugged. What could it hurt?

 

He covered his head with the hood and dashed towards the fading carriage on quick feet.

He sprinted after the carriage which honestly wasn’t going that fast. He jumped forward when he was close enough and grabbed onto the back railings kicking up of the back step. He peered into the circular window which was shrouded in a red curtain. Suddenly, the carriage bounced on the rocky road and Levi nearly lost his footing but managed to stay on by holding tight to the railings. He tried opening the door but it was locked from the inside.

 

“Shit.” Levi swore as his body swayed from the movement. No, he wouldn’t turn back now. He turned his body sideways and stood on one leg. His grip on the railing tightened as he saw the rapidly moving road beneath him. If he fell… he’d be crushed by the huge wheels and horse hooves. He breathed in a sigh and brought his foot down to the handle. It didn’t budge. With more strength, he did the same thing. He heard it break this time.

 

The door opened a crack as the lock was now broken. Levi threw the handle that came off into the disappearing road behind him. He opened the door and dove inside the carriage.

“Oh mon Dieu, who the fuck are you?!” A young male voice said. It was a black haired boy with brown eyes. His skin was lightly tanned and pink.

 

Levi assessed the young man with a cock of his head. He took the hood of his head and looked at him closer. He had big brown eyes and freckles. His black hair was shorter in the back. Well he’d have to do.

 

He noticed he was holding a knife with a trembling hand. Levi raised an eyebrow. He was probably some spoiled rich kid who thrived on his daddy’s money. Probably never set foot outside the town. Never seen war, poverty or starvation. Probably not even death.

 

“What’s your name?” Levi asked him, still crouching on the floor from when he dove in.

 

“W-what does it matter?” The annoying kid asked.

 

“Tell me.” Levi grit out.

 

“Cyrille Degaré! Please just….don’t hurt me!”

 

Levi smirked. “Lost lord, huh? It fits.”

 

“What are doing in here? You can’t just break in! When my father hears-”

 

“Where’s the invitation?” Levi said.

 

“What…?” The boy said, confused.

 

“To the Queen’s ball. Where is it.”

 

Cyrille looked genuinely confused. And he should. He was probably expecting him to rob him of his gold.“Why do you want that?”

 

Levi gripped the the boy’s hair and pulled his head back. The boy cried out pathetically. “Okay! It’s on that seat there.” He pointed at the seat in front of him.

 

“Don’t. Move.” Levi bit out, sick of having to babysit. He rummaged through the pile of papers. He scoffed as he looked at one that detailed the little brat’s expenses. He continued until he found a brown envelope sealed with red wax. He opened it uncaringly and read it quickly.

 

_Cyrille Degare,_

_You have been invited to Queen Marie Antoinette’s masquerade ball. There will be food, drink, and entertainment. The party will be held in the Assembly Hall in the Southern Wing. Be sure to bring a gift and a mask_. To his luck there was a map on there as well, directing him to the ballroom.

 

Levi quirked a lopsided smile. Bingo. He turned his narrowed eyes up to the boy when he heard a whimper.

 

“Well.. .you certainly served your purpose haven’t you.” Levi said getting closer to the quivering idiot.

 

“P-please don’t hurt me! Do you want gold? I’ll give you all that I have just please, _please_.” snot dribbled down his chin.

 

Levi raised an eyebrow. “Disgusting.” to the boy’s surprise, he turned and opened the back door. The wooden doors flapped in the speed of the carriage. He heard the boy sigh in relief. That made Levi nearly laugh. “Come here.” Levi ordered.

 

Cyrille stared at him blankly, obviously confused.

 

Levi’s long black hair whipped in the wind, obscuring his face. “Come. Here. Now.”

 

Cyrille stumbled on his hands and knees and stood up on shaky feet next to Levi.

 

“Take off your clothes.” The boy complied, scared stiff.

 

“Why did you want me to-” Levi kicked the boy on his back and watched him get trampled by the horses and wooden wheels. He heard the sickening sound of bones crunching and a faint scream. He barely batted an eye. He slammed the doors shut and began to change into the boy’s clothes. Luckily they were the same size.

 

Once he was changed, he took his knife and began to cut his hair like the boy he tossed out of the carriage. He cut the hair on the back of his head a little too close to his head. He made an annoyed noise. Oh well. He felt the shaved part on his head thoughtfully. He then took the strands of black hair and shoved it under a cushion.

 

He looked at his reflection on his knife and smoothed out his hair. He parted the middle. It’ll do.

 

“Almost there, young lord!” came the carriage driver’s voice from the front.

 

Levi’s eyes drifted to the window and he couldn’t stifle the gasp of awe when he saw the green courtyard stretching for miles with green, green grass and behind that, the colossal palace. He had never seen anything like it.

 

 _In there,_ he thought, _that’s where the King and Queen are._

That thought made the feeling of awe turn into a sour taste on his tongue. He felt like spitting.

Disgusting.

**Author's Note:**

> cyrille degare means lost lord


End file.
